


His mind empty, his thoughts pure

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon Greyjoy visits the House of Black and White, post-ADWD.  Written for got_exchange on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His mind empty, his thoughts pure

Asha had been angry, he knew, although she had tried to hide it. Subtlety was never one of her strengths, and Theon could see the hard cast to her face, the gleam in her eyes that might have been suppressed tears. Whether they were tears of rage or frustration, he couldn’t say.

“You cannot ask this of me.” His voice had surprised him. After his other life, the life that he would no longer think of, mewling and wheedling, begging and pleading, its decisiveness surprised him. I have been used long enough, he thought. He did not bear Asha any ill will. She was only doing as she thought best, after all. But Theon knew that no one would accept the haggard figure, aged beyond its years, broken and incomplete, as their king. His sister’s efforts could not quite justify that.

“I ask this of you because you are my brother,” she’d said hotly, with an edge of desperation in her voice, “and because I have no other choice.”

He’d merely shaken his head sadly, and as he walked away, her ragged breath harsh in the chill air of the morning. “What of my choice?” he murmured, but she did not hear.

\--

He had heard tales of the place growing up on Pyke, although he’d never thought to see it. A city of canals, perilously placed. In a strange way, its meandering ways and waterbound shape reminded him of the Iron Islands. Not of home, Theon had thought, as he gazed upon the city of Braavos for the first time, never of home. Home, at least what he liked to think of as home, had been a large holdfast, full of bustling people, swords ringing in the yard, brothers who weren’t quite brothers, bittersweet laughter, and a vague longing for something that was just out of his reach.

He closed his eyes, wishing it away. All of it was gone, just a memory, mere ashes. Ashes would do him no good.

When they docked, he began to walk, deliberately without purpose, although he knew that he would find his destination all too soon.

\--

“I understand,” Jeyne had sighed. Her wounds were healing, at least, those of her body. Others would run deeper than a simple cut or a gash, perhaps deeper than forever.

“I think that you do,” Theon said softly, unable to meet her eyes. Jeyne knows too much. I know too much. After a long silence, he dared to look at her. Jeyne Poole, Arya Stark, Arya Bolton, Lady of Winterfell, sat by a meager fire, huddled in thick furs, a bandage covering the frostbite that marred her beauty. Every one of her movements was born of a nervous energy, and she constantly looked over her shoulder at the slightest noise, freezing like a cornered hare, forever anticipating a threat that had been extinguished, even if her body did not yet believe it.

And those habits are hard to break. He still woke from his uneasy sleep, pulled between two worlds, two lives. When he was awake, of course, he was Theon, and although the knowledge that he carried was sharp and sour, he was able to put it aside. It was only when he slept that he was Reek again, lying in his own filth in a cramped cell, waiting for the inevitable agony, unsure whether he despised or desired its coming, his lord standing over him, dirty laughter echoing as his Reek cowered and scraped.

“It isn’t something that you can put aside,” Jeyne said, her voice hard. “But maybe, just maybe, you can outrun it.” She turned back to the fire, fretfully rubbing her thin hands together.

\--

When he entered the temple, he was surprised to hear the flow of water, a comforting, monotonous sound that tugged at him, urging him forward. Theon could hardly see in the gloom, discerning the vague shapes of bizarre figures. They were no threat though. Gods, he thought. Only statues. He wondered if his people’s god was here, but all he felt was silence.

As he made his way through the outer rooms of the temple, he passed benches, figures clustered together, some seated, heads bowed low, others standing aside, their eyes dim, their faces blank. He came upon a great pool, and had the urge to sit by its side, to dip a trembling hand into the water. Theon, with great effort, and some pain, lowered himself to the floor, wincing as his aching joints scraped the rough stones. He cupped his hands together, drawing up the water, drinking what little did not run through the places where fingers had been, trickling home again.

He sat for a time, gathering the will to rise, and when he stood again, slid onto one of the many benches that lined the chamber. He wasn’t quite ready.

\--

His thoughts are disjointed, conjoined, as he sits, head in his hands. In the silence, which is not merciful, everything floods forward, and he allows it now, for the first time in so long.

The little child of Pyke, his life harsh and confounded, sister always one step ahead of him, his father’s eyes clearly showing their favor, even then, as Asha bests him at swordplay, outruns him, outstrips him.

And then he is a stranger in a not-so distant land, surrounded by a family where he will never quite fit, brothers, for the first time, not of his blood, but of his heart. Robb, once a boy, now an heir, a lord, a king, and he pledges himself.

Asha again, this time a woman, her taunts ringing in his ears. Balon’s grim visage, stripping away foolish ostentation, and he knows that nothing will serve. He will not do.

Women’s faces then, a myriad. Sad-eyed young women who would have wed the impudent young man. Whores, their bodies brimming with secret knowledge that he longs to claim. A miller’s wife, bored and restless, and his, clinging to him. He will eventually make her weep.

A vow is shattered almost as soon as it is sworn. A desperate attempt to change scorn to favor. He sees Winterfell assaulted, in ruins, his betrayal as damning as expressions on familiar faces contorted in grief and fear. He falls and falls fast.

And he then is betrayed.

Then there are the dungeons, and he is Reek again, another man’s plaything, cradling his ruined hand, his ravaged body, gnawing on rats and worse to survive, wondering at the fight left in him. An indecent voice says his name, caressing it, and everything goes grey.

Jeyne’s face, contorted in terror and pain. The singer and his women. The snow. Death around them, and finally falling together. Asha. And he is Theon again.

I am weary, he thinks, as it all blurs together, parts of a life that no longer is, memories that can do him no good, and it all drifts away. He closes his eyes, lying on the stone bench, now he supposes his bier, his mind empty, his thoughts pure, sleep without dreams.


End file.
